bright white place

Books & CupcakesBook Photo ChallengeJune • Day 20

Colours

anonymous asked:

For the drabbles (if theyre still open!) #18, Jungkook, and either Jungsh00k Au or Fuckboy!Jungkook 😍 Whichever one you think fits it the best. Also I have to say that your writing honestly makes me so damn happy okay oml ❤️❤️ Dont push yourself, and stay healthy!

hello thank you so much for asking! i hope you like it! it’s a continuation from my previous fuckboy!jungkook drabble, hope that’s okay!

18. “Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?”

WORD COUNT: 1,515

part one 

Originally posted by b4ngt4nboys

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July 26 | Books & Cupcakes Book Photo Challenge | Black & White

La Tristesse d’Eté

Post-The Truth.

PG-13 

Trigger warning: suicidal thoughts 

AN: I think it’s quite probable that Scully, too, experienced a period of darkness and grief – and I think hers likely would have happened shortly after The Truth.

Thank you so much for reading. Written (belatedly) for @leiascully’s awesome XF Writing Challenge, for the prompt “Balance” - thanks to her for creating it :)

Most people’s lives appear to flow like a storybook. Scully’s has had endless stops and starts. That’s what trauma does, she knows. It interrupts the plot of one’s life. And she can’t even process the events that happened because they don’t fit with what came before or what followed after.

Here, in her own ashes, she lies: so lost she’s sure that even if she does manage to find her way out of this labyrinth, she will never see, feel, taste, or touch life the same again.

She is not herself. In this moment she is completely off-kilter, in a constant state of imbalance. She is a hollow nonbeing, untethered, floating in the middle of a silent lake and pulled toward neither shore, simply adrift.  

The body remembers, she’d read once.

As she lies in the dark on the springy motel bed, her hand unconsciously drifts to rest across her abdomen.

She knows there are stretch marks, tiny silvery-purple rivulets across her hips. She knows there’s a bullet scar, puckered and pink. She knows this is the skin that was poked, prodded, and pierced by medical technology that only exists in the bright white place.

Her mother’s angry voice echoes in the space between her ears, circling like a broken record from the day she found her grandson gone. Dana, how could you? How could you do that? No, look at me - how could you do that!

Yes, Dana, she berates herself, lying supine and staring at the peeling ceiling. How could you.

She closes her eyes and suddenly she is so, so tired.

The body remembers. And her heart – her black, black heart - it remembers most of all.

Twin tracks of salty wetness roll down her temples and disappear into her hair.

She rolls over on the hard mattress and watches him, watches the slow rise and fall of his chest as he lies on his back, sleeping the sleep of the overtired. He is so good, she thinks.

She inches closer, and slides her arm over his chest, her leg bending up to settle over his thigh under the thin blanket.

She presses her forehead to the space just above his ear, breathing warm air onto his skin.

“Scully?” he mumbles, lifting his arm to wrap it around her. she settles easily into the heat of the crook of his shoulder. “You ok?”

I’m drowning. “I’m fine,” she whispers, and dusts her fingertips over his eyes so he will close them again.

* * *

It would just be an accident, she thinks, if she were to lose her balance.

Mulder is inside the convenience store, buying some snacks and some laundry detergent, and she’s sitting on a high brick ledge overlooking a cement walkway several meters down below.

It could just be an accident.

The wind is cool and it whispers through her hair, blowing it softly against her face. The red strands stick to her cheeks.

It is not a desire to die, per se. It’s not as simple as everyone thinks. It is more so a desire to cease. To stop. Her mind spins and spins and spins for hours and at the end of the day there is still a baby without his mother to hold him and dry his tears when he cries.

Because his mother is weak - a coward, a failure, a deserter, she admonishes, and her nails dig in to the tops of her thighs.

If she just lost her balance – if she just closed her eyes and lost her footing – it would be nothing more than an accident.

No. She will not. Dana, Get up. Right now.

She is terrified of herself. 

It is another few minutes before she can convince her heavy limbs to move, but she finally swings her legs back over the ledge and stands on the sidewalk, taking a deep breath before ambling back towards the small row of shops.

Mulder is standing outside the convenience store, watching, his expression unreadable. He meets her halfway, and then they walk towards the car.

“What’s going on, Scully?” he asks, and laces his hand through hers, holding tightly.

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking is overrated,” he jokes, but she can hear the tightness in his throat – he is anxious.

He knows, she thinks, and closes her eyes, suddenly feeling very, very selfish and very, very sorry.

“I got you some Swedish Berries,” he says, holding up the pink package and shaking it enticingly.  

“Mmm,” she murmurs. “Thanks.”

“I just gotta fill the tank,” he says, when they reach the car, giving her the package of candy and the bag with the rest of his purchases. “Stay in the car, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispers.

* * *

That night, they lie in another dingy motel bed. She feels the cool air from the ceiling fan whispering across her bare, sweaty body and it feels nice.

“I love you,” he tells her, exhaling harshly against her neck and shifting his weight to his forearms, pressing his hands gently against her cheeks. “So much, Scully.”

She nods into the heat of his neck as he moves against her, slipping her arms over his waist in a gentle caress. “Oh,” she cries, the sound muted against his skin, and pulls his head down closer.  I love you too, she answers with her body, breathless.

Afterwards, he tosses their discarded clothing to the floor and pulls up the sheets. “It’s going to be alright,” he murmurs in her ear, lying back down behind her, kissing her shoulder. His fingers find her face and gently wipe away the tears.

“We’re here together,” he reminds her.

 In this moment, lying next to him, she is on solid ground. She is rooted. She is not afraid of losing her balance. 

“Yes,” she agrees, and knows that someday she will be okay enough to believe him.

for the anon who wondered what would happen if Mulder actually meant it when he asked “who are you?” thanks to one-in5billion and a-brighter-yellow for guidance

memento (vivere) | deadalive | wc: 1555 | warnings: none

i.

She used to think that she knew the three most dangerous words in the English language.

Who are you

One word for every scar on his left cheek. She touches them before she can stop herself, runs her thumb along the face she buried. She can see him with a flashlight at his chin in an old Victorian manor on Christmas Eve, teasing her because a part of him can’t believe that this, of all places, is where she is afraid. He scares her senseless to get it out of her system, stops her heart and starts it again. He was a brooding but heroic young man. Who are you

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